


Run Boy Run

by pikestaff



Series: What If This Storm Ends (Renegades Universe) [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Backstory, Feathermage Baby, Gen, Here we go!, It's not graphic but not super pleasant either, PTSD, a lot of The Chantry Being Terrible, and Templars Being Terrible, basically i took the canon stuff from the wiki and tried to expand, by baby I mean 12, some blood (nothing real graphic I don't think), some parental emotional abuse at the very beginning but it's quick, some violence and injuries, this is my first DA fic i'm real nervous about uploading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikestaff/pseuds/pikestaff
Summary: "Run boy run, this world is not made for you."A boy finds a name and a purpose.Heavily inspired by a tumblr post that I didn't write (link in the notes)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I saw this post - http://dashingapostate.tumblr.com/post/139681703815/okay-so-i-noticed-this-a-few-weeks-ago-but-i-dont -- going around tumblr and it turned into a story idea in my head and then I had to write it. I hope I did the idea and the character justice (pun definitely intended).

_Magic is bad._  
_Magic is bad._  
_Magic is bad._

The forests were thick in the darkness and the boy tripped over a tree root and fell to his knees. He pulled himself up and cast around for somewhere, anywhere, to hide. His breathing was quick and labored and his eyes were wide with fear. There had to be somewhere he could go. Somewhere he could wait while this all blew over, and then maybe he could explain, and maybe they’d understand—

Barking behind him; the heavy thump of athletic, muscled dogs as they ran in pursuit. And the boy turned and ran again. He wasn’t thinking, he was just running, running, running, clutching a small package to his chest, all he’d decided to take with him once he realized the trouble he was in—

He couldn’t outrun the dogs and they had him pressed against a tree, their ears pinned back flat against their stocky faces, their pointed teeth bared. Would they attack him? Did they want him dead, or alive? He had done something terrible, he _was_ something terrible…

_Magic is bad._

Voices called to the dogs, and they backed off. A bit. Their eyes were trained on him and the boy was too terrified to move. New figures entered his vision, now, and it seemed to him that they were as tall as the trees they walked past. Immense, imposing figures in gleaming silver armor emblazoned with a sword motif. For some reason that sword was all he could focus on, and in that moment the boy’s entire existence consisted of growling dogs and the thick scent of earth and, filling his vision, the flaming sword of mercy.

They were talking to him now and he couldn’t make out the words over his own heartbeat.

One of the dogs barked and a man said something to hush it. Another man began to approach the boy and he turned to run, but then the other dog circled him, snarling, pressing him up against a tree. The armored men were saying something, again, and now the boy’s attention was distracted by his father, who had arrived and was sneering down at him.

There was absolute, utter hatred on his face.

“Please,” the boy said. “It was an accident.”

The man turned to leave. “Take him away,” he said to the templars. His voice was filled with disgust.

And the armored men were on him, and he was terrified and kicking and crying and they were taking his package from him— “please, that’s all I have,” he pleaded, to deaf ears— and he was handcuffed and half-dragged, half-carried to the road, growling dogs on his heels, shouts in his ears, those swords on the templars’ armor in his eyes. There was a carriage with a horse waiting for them, and the boy was pulled inside. It was dark. He huddled miserably in the corner, a templar on a nearby seat, watching him. For a few brief moments all was still, and the templars outside talked amongst each other and mounted their own horses and he overheard his father, referring to him by name and then saying “He’s a blighted abomination in the eyes of the Maker is what he is. Do what you will with him.”

Then they were underway.


	2. Chapter 2

They were on the road for about three days. The boy was let out on occasion to eat and to relieve himself, although it was not easy with the templars’ watchful eyes on him, always on him. He spent a considerable amount of time fitfully sleeping as the carriage bumped along the roads. The templars had given him a thin, ragged blanket to use and he wrapped himself in it and shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep. His package had had a pillow in it. He could have at least used a pillow, if they hadn’t taken it from him.

No one bothered trying to talk to him. They might have, perhaps, if he’d tried to initiate conversation, but he didn’t say a word.

Finally they reached a remote village on the edge of a lake and the boy was transferred from the carriage to a small boat. It was the middle of the night, but even so, he could see a tower rising seemingly from out of the water. It was a dark and foreboding shape looming far above them, and the lake was strewn with the sharp, jutting ruins of a bridge, long since destroyed.

For the first time in three days, the boy spoke. “What is that?” he asked, looking up at the tower.

“That is Kinloch Hold,” said a templar.

The name itself was as sharp as the ruins of the bridge. The boy didn’t like it.

They reached the other side and the boy was led inside, still handcuffed. There were no dogs this time, as they and the horses had stayed behind in the village on the edge of the lake, but there were still templars behind him and even more of them inside the building itself.

The tower was somehow immense and also stifling at the same time, as though its grandness only intensified a sense of claustrophobia rather than rectified it. It made the boy uncomfortable and somehow itchy. Not that he could scratch his arm, with his hands still in cuffs. He tried to flex them as best as he could as they stood just inside the entryway and waited for something, but immediately all the templars turned to look at him, so he stopped.

Right. Magic is bad. He is bad.

Finally a nearby door opened and two men approached. One was a templar, although he wasn’t wearing a helmet, and the other was in a robe. The only time the boy had seen people in robes before was when they were Chantry brothers and sisters, but this was a darker, different type of robe. Was he…?

“Greetings,” the robed man said to the guests, and he looked down at the boy and smiled. The smile seemed genuine. The boy still didn’t trust it yet. “I am First Enchanter Irving, and this man beside me is Knight-Commander Greagoir. And who might you be?”

And the boy said nothing. First it was because he felt small and helpless here in this place, before all these templars and their great shining armor, but then when he finally opened his mouth he realized that when he thought of his name, all he could think of was his father spitting it out like a curse before watching him be carted away. So he closed his mouth again and looked down at the floor.

“He’s terrified, is what he is,” said the templar who accompanied Irving.

“Like so many. I suppose that can’t be helped.” Irving sighed. He looked at the templars who had been accompanying the boy. “His name?”

The templars shuffled their feet and looked at each other. “I didn’t catch it,” one of them finally admitted.

Irving raised an eyebrow. “None of you know his name?” He looked down at the boy, and the boy looked up at him, and Irving sighed. “Very well. I suppose we will learn it in due time. I apologize, child. I understand this must all be frightening. Let me try to explain, if no one has.”

No one had.

“This is Kinloch Hold, although we usually just call it the Circle Tower. You see, this is Ferelden’s Circle of Magi, where you will learn to control your magic and become a mage.”

_Magic is bad._

“There are… many things which I imagine you wish to know, but for now I’m sure you’re tired, so we’ll get you to bed and you’ll learn more tomorrow.” Irving looked back up at the Templars. “If you didn’t get his name, did you at least get some information about him?”

One of the templars handed a paper to Greagoir, who glanced it over before handing it to Irving. Irving nodded as he read— the boy guessed it was detailing all the awful things he had done— but then he spotted something else. One of the templars had the package they had taken from him, and was about to hand it over to Greagoir as well.

And now the boy spoke.

“Hey! That’s mine,” he said. “I… I need it. Please.”

“Oh? What is it?” asked Greagoir, taking the small bundle from the other templar.

“It’s… it’s just… some things from home,” said the boy. It was the truth. A few things he’d thought he might need before he attempted to run away forever.

Greagoir carefully unwrapped the bundle, appraised the contents, and then handed it over to Irving. The First Enchanter’s face softened as he took the package. “Normally we don’t allow apprentices to bring their own possessions, as they are starting a new life here. However… you may have this.” He took the largest and softest object from the bundle and handed it to the boy.

A pillow. Hand-embroidered by his mother.

The boy took it and clung to it as best he could with his cuffed hands, and upon seeing this Greagoir instructed the templars to uncuff him. They did so. The boy didn’t try to run. He felt as though the tower’s walls were pressing him to the floor, and he couldn’t even run if he wanted to. Instead he clutched his pillow to his chest and watched as a new person approached. This person was also wearing a robe but there was something different about him. He looked down at the boy and the boy looked up and saw a golden sunburst on the man’s forehead.

“Hello,” the man said flatly, and the boy didn’t like the way he said it. “I am here to show you to your room. Follow me.”

He turned around and the boy followed him through a doorway and down a long hallway. The boy looked back, briefly, and saw the templars staring at him, and then he turned his attention back to the dismal man in front of him. Something about the walls and ceiling made him nervous. They felt too high.

The strange man with the sunburst led him to a dormitory with several beds within. There were other apprentices there, mostly around his age, and although most of them were asleep a few turned to see the newcomers arrive. The boy was the center of attention and he didn’t like it. He’d been the center of attention enough over the last few days.

He crawled into the nearest unoccupied bed, pulled the blankets over his head so no prying eyes could see him, and clung tight to his mother’s pillow. And silently, he cried.


	3. Chapter 3

When the boy awoke the next morning, a skinny elf child was peering at him. He sat up straight in bed as the elf proclaimed “He’s awake! He’s awake!” in a high-pitched voice, which sent several other children rushing over. One of them, a boy who was slightly older and taller than the others, wasted no time in asking questions. “Are you new? What’s your name?”

The boy didn’t respond. He was still waking up and adjusting from what had been a fitful sleep and he could barely remember where he was. He glanced around. A dormitory of some sort, filled with beds and people his age. Several of them were staring at him with wide eyes.

“Well?” a girl spoke up. “What’s your name?”

And the boy didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that he was scared of other kids. On the contrary, he had always been an outgoing person who made friends easily. He was good at making people laugh— children and adults alike, and he knew it. But he was stressed, and flashes of his father’s bitter face and his mother’s tears and the templars and the handcuffs were all fresh on his mind, so instead he pulled his knees up to his chest and said nothing.

“Can you talk?” the girl asked. “Where are you from?”

“When they came in last night I overheard the templars saying his father’s from the Anderfels,” said the older boy.

“What’s an Anderfel?” asked the squeaky-voiced elf.

“Not Anderfel, Anderfels. With an ‘s’. It’s a place.”

“My mother told me about the Anderfels,” said the girl. “The people there, she says never to underestimate them. When they’re angry, they fight like bears, or… tigers. Real scary. Anders, she calls them.”

“What’s an Anders?” the elf piped up.

“No. No ‘s’ on that one. Dumb knife-ear,” said the older boy.

“Shut up, shem,” an elf girl called from across the room.

“I en’t talking to you!” the older boy yelled back.

The boy on the bed seemed to curl further in on himself. “I’m from Ferelden. And I’m not scary,” he mumbled.

“Alright, so you’re Fereldan,” said the older boy. “But what’s wrong with being scary? We’re mages, en’t we? They’re already scared of us. May as well give ‘em what they want, eh?”

“Did you just get here last night?” asked the girl.

The boy nodded. He didn’t feel like talking anymore.

“That means you’re going to get the tour today,” said the older boy. “By one of the Tranquil, I reckon. They’re funny, those Tranquil. But they can’t hurt you. Not really.”

At that point someone from the other side of the dormitory yelled something, and whatever she was talking about, it got the attention of most of the children and they ran over. All but the elf, who perched on the edge of the boy’s bed and peered at him owlishly. Eventually he tilted his head. “What’s an Anders? Is that you?”

The boy closed his eyes. “I’m not sure what I am,” he said softly.

The elf continued to peer at him with those round eyes, but then a door opened and a robed woman walked in. She had a sunburst brand on her forehead, just like the man last night had, and the boy found her similarly unsettling. “Breakfast is served,” she said in a dull voice that was quickly drowned out by the sounds of the children rushing towards the hall. The elf, too, leaped off his perch and dashed out the door. Only the boy remained where he was, and that was just as well, because the robed woman approached him now. “You will not be eating just yet. First, there is a ritual you must endure. Do not be afraid, there will be no pain aside from some minor discomfort.”

The boy wasn’t sure what part of this statement was more unsettling, the fact that there was a “ritual” he had to “endure” or the fact that the woman seemed to lack any emotion entirely as she spoke of it. Had he been anywhere else, he would have ran, but the tower’s oppressive walls kept him rooted to the spot.

“Come, then,” the woman said. “It will not take long.”

She didn’t move, but rather kept her unsettling blank stare fixed on the boy, and it soon unnerved him enough that he stood and only then the woman left the room. The boy followed.

She led him down the hall and to another door, where First Enchanter Irving and Knight Commander Greagoir were standing. Greagoir was holding something, although the boy couldn’t tell what. Irving turned and smiled at the boy as he walked in. “Ah, good morning. Are you up to talking, now that you’ve had some rest? To tell us your name, perhaps?”

The boy stood motionless in the doorway. Irving seemed nice enough, but there was something about him he still didn’t trust. His robes were too black, his stance— his arms behind his back— too rigid. So he didn’t respond.

Irving shifted a bit. “I know you’re scared,” he said, and his voice was understanding, if not comforting. “But I promise you— Greagoir and I are here to protect you. We just need your help, for a few minutes, so we can protect you as best as we can… here, it’s alright…”

The boy didn’t realize until just now, when he bumped into the woman with the sunburst brand, that he’d been subconsciously backing up. He looked up at her, and she looked down at him, and the thin smile she wore, which clearly had no feeling behind it, petrified him.

And now Irving and Greagoir had walked up to him and were standing next to him. “We just need a bit of your blood, it will only take a moment,” said Irving, and he brandished a small, thin knife.

But the glint of the knife brought a flaming sword on polished armor to the boy’s mind, and that brought back memories of screams and barking dogs and men on rearing horses and handcuffs and _he’s a blighted abomination in the eyes of the Maker is what he is_ and he turned to run but then the woman with the sunburst was holding him in place and Greagoir was holding his arm out as he struggled and Irving was saying something— probably something soothing, although the boy certainly couldn’t tell— and he took his hand and in one quick motion he made a cut in his palm. The boy cried out in pain, but with three people holding him he couldn’t move as a few droplets of his blood fell into a phial. Then, nearly as soon as it had started, it was over, and Irving pulled the phial away and cast a spell, and the blood inside began to pulse and glow.

Greagoir let go of his arm at last, and the boy pulled it away and rubbed his palm with his thumb, smearing blood on it. He watched Irving’s actions leerily. Irving held the phial out towards him, which was glowing a bright and deep red. “This is called a phylactery,” he said. “It’s magic, and it will let us find you if you are ever lost. It’s a big tower, after all.” He handed the phial over to Greagoir, who took it carefully.

“Well, I won’t keep you here any longer than necessary,” said Irving. “I’ll send you off to have breakfast with the others. Afterwards, we’ll show you around the tower and you can ask any questions you may have.”

The emotionless woman behind the boy finally relaxed her grip on him. “Come with me and I will take you to the dining hall,” she said, and turned without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

It took two weeks before the boy stopped seeing flashes of templars in his mind in that place between wakefulness and sleep every night.

He was adjusting— as best as he could. Back home, he was outside every day. Climbing trees, floating in the nearby creek, running with dogs or playing with the barn kittens. Here, they were allowed outside only on certain days, for a sanctioned length of time, and there was _nothing to do_ on the island. Most of the others simply stood around during these scheduled periods, and the boy would press his back up against the tower’s walls and stare at the lake around them, watching the birds fly overhead. Perhaps, he thought, if he wished hard enough, he could turn into a bird and fly away. Unfortunately, that never happened.

There was precious little to be done inside the tower, as well. He was now an apprentice, which meant lots of learning and reading, but very little of it interested him. The Chant of Light was required daily reading, too. Particularly the segments about the Tevinter Imperium and blood magic and how _magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

The boy doodled on the pages of his journals and wondered if he would ever see his home again. He wondered if his father would even want to look at him again. Perhaps, he thought, if he could prove that he knew some sort of _useful_ magic.

Something flashed through his mind then. _Magic is bad._

He shoved the thought away. Now was not the time. Not while he was plotting.

There was a book in the tower’s vast library called _Spirit Healers Through the Ages._ It spoke of generations of people who used their powers to heal others. _That_ sounded useful. So one day he took it from the shelf and took it back to his cot, where he sat, cross-legged, and read.

The other apprentices didn’t bother him, for the most part. He never initiated conversation and on the rare occasions that they tried to speak to him, he usually didn’t answer. Occasionally he was badgered for his name, which he still didn’t give, at this point because of his own obstinate stubbornness more than anything. They’d been wondering for this so long, he may as well keep them wondering. It amused him. At some point the kids started calling him “The Ander”— well, all except for the squeaky-voiced elf, who called him “Anders”. At first it irked the boy, because he’d already told them he was Fereldan, but he couldn’t be bothered to correct them yet again and he was actually starting to grow fond of the title. _The Anders are like bears_ , they’d said. _Like tigers._ He hadn’t liked the comparison at first but at some point he had come to accept it. There were tigers in his dreams, sometimes. They growled when he approached, so he kept his distance. They were spirits, and he didn’t know whether or not to trust them.

So he read, and took notes, and practiced as the enchanters showed him, and kept to himself.

The weeks drifted into months. The boy began to open up a little— only to the other kids. He was still wary around the enchanters and especially around the templars. He had always made friends easily and the tower was no different; the other children found him funny and clever and although he wasn’t the most popular person in the dormitory, he was well liked.

His crowning achievement during this period of time came one night when the apprentices close to the door woke due to a strange sound. The templar guard just outside their room had fallen asleep and was snoring— loudly. The children giggled at this and woke the others, and soon they were all gathered around the door, snickering.

“Big scary templar’s fallen asleep,” said one.

“Do you think we can sneak past and get to the kitchens? I heard they’ve got pies hidden in there,” said another.

“Who’s got a quill? Give him a mustache!” yet another suggested.

And now the boy spoke up. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. And he moved his hands and carefully summoned a tiny, _tiny_ wisp— which then proceeded to float out to the templar and then promptly travel up his nose.

The templar woke, snorting and yelling, and the children all dashed back to their beds, giggling, and pulled the covers up over their heads so they could pretend to be asleep if someone came to lecture them. But no one did.

…until the next morning, anyway.

Instead of the usual Tranquil being the one to wake them up and lead them to breakfast, First Enchanter Irving himself arrived, flanked by two templars. Irving looked serious— even more so than usual. The boy had a bad feeling he knew why he was there.

Irving got right down to business. “Good morning,” he said. “I hear there was an… incident last night. One that involved summoning a spirit.” His eyes swept across the room and every child felt as though those eyes personally landed on them. “As you are probably aware,” he continued, “The summoning of spirits is a serious matter, not one to be taken lightly. And not one to be used for pranks, especially as an apprentice. Now, would anyone volunteer to come forward and say who was behind this?”

Silence throughout the room. No one wanted to snitch on the boy— not when he was so likable, and not when the prank had been so amusing. Throughout the dormitory children fidgeted, and the boy, for his part, looked down at his bed, his blanket clutched between his palms. Of course magic wasn’t for fun. _Magic is bad._

“Very well,” said Irving at length. “If no one is willing to confess, then I’m afraid I’ll have to assume that you all had a part in this. For the next week, you will all be confined to the dormitory except for meals.”

There were groans and protests from all around, and Irving looked as though he was about to speak again, but then one voice said “Wait.”

And the boy slid off of his bed and took a few steps towards Irving and the templars. “It… it was me, First Enchanter. It was my idea. And… I’m the one who did it.”

Irving’s expression seemed to soften, only just, as he looked the boy up and down. “I see,” he said at length. Then, after another moment, “You never gave me your name, did you?”

_Like a tiger._

“Anders,” he said.

“Anders,” Irving repeated, as though he wasn’t quite sure if it was a real name. He paused for just a moment before continuing. “Very well. Anders, you are confined to the dormitory except for meals for the next week. The rest of you will have studies as normal. Although I hope you have all learned a valuable lesson about magic.”

_It’s bad._

So, after breakfast, Anders was led back to the dormitory after breakfast and left there, alone.

Well, not quite alone.

There was a templar standing just outside the room, of course.

-

At first, Anders was determined not to let any of this get to him. He hurled himself into his studies, reading and taking notes and desperately pretending that he wasn’t actually upset about what had happened. But by the third day he was restless. He paced back and forth in the dormitory, a creature in a cage— “Anders makes me dizzy,” said the scrawny elf one day, watching him. At one point he did manage to occupy himself for a solid two hours by standing near the door and mercilessly teasing the templar guard. It started out as making faces at him, but when he turned around so as not to see him anymore, Anders responded by making various disgusting noises in his general direction instead. The templar did his best to appear unfazed, but Anders saw him twitch every time he opened his mouth and let out another masterfully crafted belch. That twitch was worth all the effort in the world.

By the end of the week, though, he felt like he was going to explode. He spent the most of the last day of his detention period lying down on his cot, throwing a ball he’d made out of crumpled paper into the air and catching it as it came down. Over and over again. Until at one point it went the wrong direction and ended up on the floor, and then he just stared at the ceiling instead.

A few moments later, he heard a thump at the window nearest his cot. His interest piqued, he slipped off the bed and headed towards the window. There, on the sill just outside, was an injured bird. It must’ve flown into the window. It was a tiny thing, and it sat there stunned, one wing askew. Anders opened the window and carefully reached for the bird— the window was small, and barred, but he could slip an arm out— and then gently cupped it in a hand and pulled it inside. He held it briefly, stroking the feathers with a thumb and whispering soothing words to it. Instinctively, he looked around to see if any templars were nearby, but none were in the room and the guard outside wasn’t looking. So he channeled the power of the Fade itself through his hands, and for a few fleeting seconds they were glowing with power and light, and then he held his hands up to the window and opened them. The bird, whole again, chirped once and then flew away.

He watched it as it darted from branch to branch on a nearby tree, and then finally it spread its wings and disappeared across the lake.

_If I was a bird, then I could fly away._

It rained that night. Anders kept the window open so he could hear it. He missed the smell and feel of rain. On the rare occasions that he was allowed outside, it was only when it was sunny. He fell asleep, wishing he was a bird.


	5. Chapter 5

Anders was overjoyed when he was allowed back into the rest of the tower proper the next day. That joy didn’t last particularly long, however, because he quickly realized that he had been released from a cage into a slightly larger cage. Fidgety and restive, he took to roaming the halls and corridors of the tower— the ones he was allowed access to, which wasn’t many. For the most part the enchanters and templars paid him no mind, seeing him as little more than a bored child, which was true. Still, he hated the way the templars watched him, and he especially hated the way the Tranquil would offer a thin smile and ask if perhaps he should return to his quarters? He had learned, by then, that “Tranquil” was the term for those unsettling soulless people with the sunburst branded on their forehead, and he hated how hollow they were and he hated that everyone else in the tower seemed to think that their existence was perfectly normal, that it was okay to lobotomize someone because because they’d failed to meet some sort of arbitrary standard imposed by the Chantry.

He tried not to think about it too much. If he fell asleep too angry, the tigers in his dreams would growl more than usual.

One day he found the kitchens and began to spend time there, primarily because it was more interesting than most of the rest of Kinloch Hold. At first the head cook had been opposed to having a constant visitor, but then they mutually bonded over a twenty minute session of terrible food puns and he grew fond of the boy. They would chat on their daily visits and Anders would usually come away with some sort of sweet treat, which was initially the main reason why he continued to show up. One day, however, he noticed something. On one side of the kitchen was a large walk-in pantry. This, by itself, was not especially noticeable and the cooks used it often. But one day when they opened it, a bright beam of sunshine spilled into the kitchen.

There was a door from the pantry to the outside.

Anders was stunned. Even more so when he saw someone who obviously wasn’t a part of the Circle moving bags and crates inside. Of course. It made sense that there had to be a way to get goods from the rest of Ferelden into the tower.

He glanced away quickly. It felt scandalous, somehow. There was a fear deeply seeded inside him that even so much as noticing a way out would get him in trouble with the templars. He didn’t say anything about what he’d seen and left soon after.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So he started visiting at particular times on particular days and over the course of the next few weeks he figured out when the deliveries were usually made. He didn’t know why he was doing this. At least, he didn’t think he knew. Of course he wasn’t planning an escape. Of course not. No, that would be preposterous. Right?

He began falling asleep to wistful thoughts of being reunited with his family. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Magic was bad, of course, but perhaps even bad things could be useful, if he showed that he could heal injured farm animals? Maybe the village would accept him. Maybe things could go back to how they had been before. Maybe…

No. No, it was ridiculous. He pushed the idea out of his head. Magic was bad, he was bad, and he was especially bad for thinking he could get away with an escape.

…that didn’t stop him from wandering down to the kitchens again the next day there was a delivery.

It didn’t stop him from eying the open door in the pantry like a hungry cat eying a meal.

-

He honestly hadn’t planned it when it finally happened.

Oh, it was always in the back of his mind, a pipe dream, something that he always pushed back down because it was wrong.

_Wrong._

But none of that was in his mind the day he happened to walk down to the kitchens to see that the head cook was in the hall talking to someone he didn’t recognize and the kitchen itself was _empty_ and the pantry door was open and the door to the outside was _open_ and there was a breeze and he could see the sunshine and smell the grass and maybe he could just step outside for a moment and…

…and then it was done and Anders was outside and he felt simultaneously thrilled and terrified. He felt that the templars would jump out from behind the wall and drag him back in at any minute, and then he was sure he’d have to face a punishment worse than a week of detention. Perhaps he should go back inside.

He glanced around nervously. There was a small dock nearby, and a boat. Several crates and sacks were piled on the boat, held down by a thick net. There were no people around. The man who made the deliveries must have been the person inside talking to the cook.

Without fully comprehending what he was even doing, he sprinted to the boat. Most of the packages were empty— the deliveries had already been made. That meant that the deliveryman would be returning to the shore very soon.

 _I’m brave_ , Anders told himself, even though he doubted that he actually was.

He thought he heard a noise behind him. Whether or not he actually did, it spurred him into action and he climbed onto the boat, underneath the net, and into a large barrel that was lying on its side. The stench of fish was overpowering and he was starting to have serious doubts about this entire idea, but he felt that it was much too late to turn back now. He waited, and waited, and then his heart leaped into his throat when he heard someone approach. He held his breath and shut his eyes, assuming that any minute now the deliveryman would notice the intruder and then it would be all over— but he didn’t.

He simply climbed into the boat and shoved off and then seconds later they were on open water, and what little of the tower Anders could see from his place in the barrel began to recede in his vision. And that filled him with as much glee as it did fear.

They’d been traveling for a while when he felt the boat bump up against something and then they stopped. He heard the man climbing out and realized that they must have reached the shore and docked. And he was hit with an ice cold realization that his hasty escape plan hadn’t gone any further than simply climbing inside the boat. How was he going to leave? Would this be how the deliveryman found him? Would he just turn the boat around and take him right back to the tower?

He could hardly see from his position in the boat, but he could hear the deliveryman talking to someone else. Maybe a templar. _Maker, don’t let it be a templar._

“Ah’ll be back in a minute,” he heard the deliveryman say. “I’ve got a bit of a, ah… parched throat, you see.”

“Mind grabbing me some food while you’re in there?” said the mystery person. “Maker’s breath, I’m starved. I’ll give you five silver.”

“Mmm. That’s a deal, ser.” Anders heard the deliveryman walk away, and all was quiet. He’d have to move now, before he came back.

Slowly, carefully, he inched his way out of the barrel, making sure to stay low. He peered through the netting and tried to see who this second person was. He saw a forest off to the side, and he saw shining armor—

A templar.

He ducked, quickly. The templar had his back to him, but that didn’t mean the armor didn’t strike any less raw fear into him. A flash in his memory, thoughts of a night six months ago—

He pushed it out of his mind. Not now. Now he’d have to think quickly. Somehow he’d have to climb out of the boat without getting the templar’s attention, and the templar was near enough that he wasn’t sure how, exactly, to do that. If only this was all as easy as sending a wisp up the offender’s nose…

…and that gave him an idea.

Still crouched inside the wet barrel, Anders summoned a tiny wisp, like the one he had weeks ago when he’d first gotten in trouble. This one, though, he sent over the side of the boat and into the water, where it traveled along the shore a way, unseen, and then finally rolled towards the tavern. There was a man sitting just outside, utterly inebriated, and he was the lucky person to see the wisp before it disappeared into nearby forest. “M… magic!” he yelled. “Magic! Demons! I see it!” He stood on two wobbly legs, yelling and causing a fuss.

“What are you on about?” the templar shouted from across the yard.

“It’s demons! Spirits! I saw one, just… just there!” the drunken man pointed in a random direction.

“Andraste’s ass,” the templar muttered just loud enough for Anders to hear, and then he walked away.

Anders waited until he was sure the templar was out of earshot, and then he scampered out of the barrel and over the side of the boat and dashed to the forest he’d seen. He made his way to the thickest, deepest part of the woods he could find and there he stayed, breathing heavily, until he was absolutely certain that he wasn’t being followed.

And now, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. For the first time in half a year, he was _free_.


	6. Chapter 6

As much as he wanted to relish his freedom, Anders didn’t remain in one spot for long. He knew it was only a matter of time before the tower discovered he was missing— if they hadn’t already— and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the templars as possible.

His one goal was to get back home to his family. Somehow, he had managed to convince himself that he’d be forgiven, and everything would be okay, if he could just get home. Then the village and his parents could explain to the templars that it had all been a misunderstanding, that he was useful, that they didn’t truly want to give him up.

His biggest problem was that he did not know where in Ferelden he was, or what direction home was in.

He also did not have any food or money on him, since his escape had been so spontaneous.

But these were problems he resolved to sort out on the road. For now he figured that any movement was good movement. So he traveled through the forest for a while until he was certain that he was out of sight of the village with the templar, and then he found a road and traveled alongside it. He didn’t know where the road led, but that was okay. He was sure that he’d come across a signpost sooner or later and then he could gather his bearings from there. As for food, he decided he could pick wild fruit and steal from gardens. His plan was to avoid villages as much as he could, lest the templars told them to be on the lookout for a boy that fit his description. So he traveled, taking care to stick to the side of the road where he was less likely to be seen. The going was rough at parts, but he was in high spirits. He was outside, free of the oppressive walls of the tower and the all-seeing eyes of the templars. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt happier to feel a breeze on his face.

Then the sun set and twilight arrived.

During the day, Anders had felt confident about his ability to continue traveling at night, but now that night was actually upon him he was starting to have doubts. The mages back at the tower had, no doubt, noted his disappearance by now and begun a search. Furthermore, _things_ roamed the woods at night. He jumped at the sounds around him, wondering if every snap of a twig was a wild animal, or a bandit, or a templar. It got cold, too, and Anders was in the standard indoor clothing provided by the Circle. He rubbed his arms, teeth chattering partly out from the chill and partly from nervousness, and he began to ponder his next steps. Perhaps he could find someplace to take temporary shelter, just for the night. There was a small hill nearby and he climbed it so he could take a better look at his surroundings. He was surrounded mostly by farmlands, and off in the distance he could see a barn. Perfect. He could hide there overnight. It wouldn’t take terribly long to get there if he took a shortcut through the fields. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of being out in an open space where he could be easily seen, but on the other hand at least the night would provide some natural cover. Quickly he climbed down the hill and began to beeline towards the barn.

“Hey! You! _Kid!_ ”

Anders froze. The voice was a yell, coming from somewhere off in the distance. Instinctively he crouched low, fearing the worst.

“Hey! Help!” the voice called again, and this time it was followed by a groan of pain.

Curious now, but still wary, he followed the direction of the voice. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Here… down here,” came the reply, and Anders followed the sound until he nearly stumbled over a man lying on the ground in the middle of the field. Next to him was a dead wolf, a dagger in its skull. The man groaned and clutched his leg, and his blood and the wolf’s blood had been churned into a deep red mud beneath them. The man looked up at him. “Thank the Maker,” he breathed. “I thought I was done for. Look, I don’t know who you are, but I need help. I was… attacked by this beast. It’s by itself, no pack. I think it was mad. But I—” he moaned again. “I don’t know if I can get back. Not by myself, at least. If you would be a good boy and run back to town and get some help, then maybe, if you’re quick enough…” He doubled over in pain. A minute passed and he took a few deep breaths. “It’s… no use. I don’t know if I can make it,” he admitted.

Without thinking, Anders dropped down to his knees and looked the man’s wounds over. He didn’t know why he was doing this, other than this was the first adult in six months to treat him like a fellow human being and not something inferior and unworthy. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he said.

“Aye. I was thinking if you were quick, you might be able to get help in time. But now I’m not so sure. Shouldn’t have been out alone, I suppose. Blighted wolves. At least you can take a message for me, to my family. Let them know what’s happened.” He shut his eyes, letting out a ragged breath.

And a thought struck Anders, then, and he didn’t know what to do about it. No. No, he shouldn’t try. He couldn’t. Summoning wisps and healing birds was one thing. Summoning up the magic required to heal a man— he’d certainly never tried that before. And what if the man turned on him, for being an apostate? _Apostate_ , the term he’d heard bandied about the tower, and always with bitterness and bile in the voice.

But the man would surely die if he didn’t try.

“Hold still,” he said.

And he pressed his hands up against the man’s leg and called something up from deep within the Fade— and he channeled that energy into his hands, turning them a gleaming, bright white as the main let out a cry first of surprise and then of pain, but then the evening air was still around them and Anders sat back, spent and out of breath, and the man looked down at his leg and then at the boy and then at his leg again and then back at the boy. “You… you healed me,” he said finally.

Had it worked, then? It must’ve. He nodded mutely. He didn’t know what to say, or if he could even find his voice, which he felt he'd lost somewhere in the aftermath of the moment.

The man’s eyes widened. “You’re a runaway. From the tower. Aren’t you?”

Anders looked down at the ground. It was over, then. The secret was out. Probably the man would cart him back there now, healed or not. _Magic is bad._

But instead the man stood— shaky, at first, testing out his leg, but then tall— and he reached a hand down to Anders, who took it and stood up as well. “Thank you,” he said. “You saved my life.”

And that was a statement that took Anders by so much surprise that he wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I don’t know how to repay you, exactly,” the man said. “I can’t… I can’t bring you back with me. I can’t be seen harboring apostates. But I suppose… I suppose I’ve got this.” He reached up and unhooked an amulet that was hanging from his neck. It was golden and it gleamed even in the darkness of the evening as he held it out. “Here. It’s been in my family for a while, but it’s yours, now. With luck, you can sell it. Get yourself some coin, and get yourself far away from here.”

Anders took it, gently, and admired it in his hands for a moment before fastening it around his own neck. It was just a bit big on him, but he’d grow into it. He hid it underneath his shirt.

“I’ve got to get going,” said the man. “But a word of advice for y— oh. Oh no. Oh, merciful Andraste.” He spun around just as Anders, too, heard what the man did: the thumping of galloping hooves and metal clanging on metal and then the _templars_ were upon them, and Anders turned to run but one of the horses was reined in front of him, blocking his path, and there it was, everything coming back to him now in flashes, all the memories and sights and scents and sounds he had desperately tried to forget thrusting themselves to the forefront of his mind and they were all around, templars in front of him, behind him, to the side— and everywhere he turned was armor emblazoned with a flaming sword. One of the templars reached out for him and grabbed him, and he struggled fiercely, like a wild animal, too terrified to think. And the templar turned him around to look him in the eye, and in his face was hatred, the same hatred he’d seen etched on his father’s face on that night six months ago.

“Blighted mage bastard,” the templar spat, and he backhanded Anders across the face with his mailed glove and the boy fell, hard and winded, to the ground. The pain was searing, and as he reached up with a hand to feel his cheek another templar roughly grabbed him and pulled him to his feet and he was chained and handcuffed and he turned and saw Knight-Commander Greagoir holding a glowing red phial: his phylactery.

_It’s magic, and it will let us find you if you are ever lost._

Dog shit. It was a leash. And nothing more.

Greagoir eyed Anders up and down a few times, his expression impassive, and then he turned to the man who had been standing awkwardly to the side, watching, this entire time. “Bann Ferrenly,” he said.

The man nodded. “Ser,” he said politely but curtly.

Greagoir looked down at the ground, now, at the blood and the dead wolf. “What’s all this?”

“Wolf attack, ser. I think it was mad. He had me down, but…” he paused, as if considering what to say next, before finally finishing, “…but this boy saved my life.”

“Saved your life?”

“He’s a healer, ser.”

Greagoir quirked an eyebrow. He looked at Anders, who looked away bitterly, his cheek still smarting.

“I see,” Greagoir said. He looked back at Bann Ferrenly. “This boy is also an apostate. We will be returning him now to the tower for punishment, as is just.”

_Just._ Anders glared at the ground.

“Yes, ser,” said Ferrenly. He looked at Anders, and Anders looked back at him and saw the sympathy in his gaze, but even a Bann couldn’t do anything for him. Not without risking more than he was willing to risk.

A templar lifted Anders off the ground and placed him on Greagoir’s horse, and after the Knight-Commander barked out a few orders to his men they wheeled away at a fast pace back towards Lake Calenhad.


	7. Chapter 7

It was the early hours of the morning when Anders was dragged back into Kinloch Hold, his eyes red from tears and lack of sleep, his cheek raw from where the templar had hit him, his hair tousled from wind, his stomach growling, the handcuffs digging sharply into his wrists. He was brought before First Enchanter Irving in his study, whose eyes softened as soon as he saw the boy. “Anders,” he said. “We were worried about you.”

Anders doubted it. He blinked a couple of times and looked down at the floor.

Irving sighed as he noted the boy’s cheek and turned to Greagoir. “I thought I told you to do a thorough investigation among your men last time this happened.”

“I did,” said Greagoir, and he sounded as though he had already done this a million times before. “But I can conduct another one if you wish.”

“Please do,” said Irving. He looked back down at Anders, who was still staring at the floor. “Why did you run away?” he asked softly.

The question seemed so ridiculous. _Be brave_ , he thought to himself. _Like a tiger. Tell him exactly why._ But as he looked up at the man’s face he realized that he wasn’t brave, and he wasn’t a tiger, he was just a boy. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and trying to blink them away just made more appear. “I wanted to go home,” he said.

Irving’s face was pained, but he replied, “This is your home now, Anders.”

_Never._

Irving rubbed his temples and looked back over at Greagoir. “Unchain the poor lad and send him to bed. I’ll talk with him further after breakfast.”

Greagoir nodded and undid the chains and handcuffs, but as soon as he had done so Anders ran out of the room by himself, down the stairs, down the hall, and into the dormitory. He would at least do _that_ by himself, without a templar escort. He collapsed onto his bed and cried into his pillow— muffled sobs that were both angry and desperate. After a few moments he calmed himself and turned over onto his side, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. He let his mind go blank as he listened to the quiet sounds of the early morning. Most of the other apprentices in the room were still fast asleep. There was one child nearby, though, who was at a desk and softly reading the Chant of Light aloud to herself. “These truths the Maker has revealed to me: As there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.”

She continued to read, but Anders focused on one word. Gift. _His gift._ The Maker had referred to magic as a gift. Right there in the Chant. The Chantry must’ve loved to skip over that part, considering that he didn’t remember hearing it before.

Anders shifted a bit and he felt something fall lightly against his chest. The amulet that Bann Ferrenly had given him. He took it, gently, and rolled it over in his hands. He heard the Bann’s voice echoing in the back of his head. _You saved my life._

He had. Someone was alive because of him. And no one was going to take that knowledge from him. No templar. No enchanter. No one. Not ever. He clutched the amulet with a fist.

_Magic is good._  
_Magic is good._  
_Magic is good._

**Author's Note:**

> I like making new tumblr friends, so long as you can put up with nonstop memes and terrible posts. http://pikestaff.tumblr.com


End file.
